


Abominations

by KeithKoenar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Deception, F/M, Heavy Angst, Miscarriage, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Power Play, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Seduction, Sex, Vikings, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeithKoenar/pseuds/KeithKoenar
Summary: She has been waiting for the right moment. Power drawn to power, and not in the way you would expect, all sharp eyes and prophecies filled with blood. Ivar relishes in the attention. I must be a gift of the Gods, to find a face as ugly as his without a mirror.Ubbe watches from afar, wondering when this will break the world they know and live in. Wondering if there is anything he could do to change their fates.The Gods are watching, guiding their hands. A tale of blood and gore, passion and sacrifice, serpents and wolves, paving the way to eternal Valhalla. It is the Viking way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, no idea how long this will be. At least two chapters, that is for sure! Enjoy and comment if you like, or dislike anything.

"You're mad Ivar. Completely and utterly mad."

A grin full of teeth, eyes full of mischief. He liked it. He liked bathing in the blood lusting quiver of her upper lip, the excited jitter of her yellow freckled eyes, the flex of an eager hand over the knuckles of a knife.

"Oh Sigrhild. If only you didn't like it so much, no?"

It almost looked as if she was going to spit in his face, but the wet glob landed in the dirt next to him. She had thought better of it, turned her head in the last second. When her hand came up, it was to crush Ivar's jaw in its grip.

"I'll bathe in your blood in Valhalla, cripple boy," she spat right in his grinning face.

And Ivar only bared his teeth, gleeful. "Come get a taste of it first, and make me a happy cripple man."

In a kiss more teeth than lips, they could taste fresh blood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She remembers the anticipation in Ubbe's eyes, and the fear buried underneath, when Ivar rose to his feet. Those dragging, dreadful feet.

Sigrhild dragged her fingers across Ubbe's naked chest.

"Hell no wrath like a tall man standing," she murmured absently.

Ubbe wet his lips, his hand twitching on her shoulder. "Nonsense. My brother's still a cripple."

"Oh he is," Sigrhild peeled away and shook her wild curls, elegant fingers kneading at the sore spot on her throat. "You treated him like a cripple his whole life."

"I did not."

Ubbe's eyes are on her as she slides into her dress, wary and careful, on her when she slithers back to him across the bed, a devilish grin playing her lips. It stirs uneasiness in him, but he will not break face. He is the son of Ragnar Lothbrok, strong and cunning and powerful, and a simple shield maiden should not meet his stare with such defiance.

When her hand strokes the way up his chest, to his shoulder, up the nape of his neck, buries in his hair, goosebumps follow the touch.

" _Liar_ ," it drips from her lips like venom, and deep in her eyes she is more animal than woman. A shapeshifter perhaps, a snake. "He'll remember. Ivar never forgets."

It is power she seeks. That draws her in, feeds her own fire into something greater. Ubbe can see it, when she dances around the flickering flames in a trance, the sharp edge in her shoulders, the flowing of her limbs that follows, and when she throws her head back and grins at the skies, he knows the gods smile upon her.

Sigrhild always gets what she wants. She got Ragnar's studying eyes, way back when, Lagertha's special care. She got her raids on the other side of the sea, and her gold and slaves and Ubbe was pretty sure her glorious seat next to Odin himself in Valhalla. He wonders if Loki whispers in her ear, even right now.

She got his heart. He wonders how long it'll take her to crush it.

When she leaves and takes all warmth with her, he thinks to know.

A snake always looks for the next-best den.

 

* * *

 

"What are you, but a pretty cripple on a horse."

No one's ever called him pretty before. He should rip her throat out for it. Instead, he grabs her by the waist, crushes her, lets her rub against him for everyone to see. From his seat, when he tilts his head upwards, he can drink the tug on the edge of her full lips, the excitement drawn all over her face.

The surrounding table has only turned a notch quieter, and everyone can pretend all they want, but they are watching.

Her hand in his hair, tugging. Crazy twitching at the edge of his lips, amused by her daring move. The world around them pulses, flashbacks of battle, the cries of dying men, blood on the tip of his sword. He thinks he's shouting, but he must be laughing. A pretty cripple on a horse. He should rip her throat out.

A voice whispers in his ear. Quiet, persistent. It must be a sign of the gods. Ivar the boneless gives in to the murmur, claims Sigrhild at the highest table of the great hall, in front of the people and the gods.

Ubbe's terrified eyes on them only add to the thrill.

A snake and a wolf, intertwining in a deadly embrace.

 

* * *

 

"You think I do not know what you are doing?" Ubbe spits. He isn't stupid. "I am not stupid," he says out loud.

As if he had to reassure himself.

Without faltering in her steps, Sigrhild strides through the market place, and Ubbe has no choice but to follow her hot on her heels. She barely gives him a glance.

"I do not know what you're talking about."

In a fit of rage Ubbe pushes her into an alley, away from prying eyes, and almost regrets it as her murderous eyes find his. He expects the punch, and supposed he deserves it. All he can do is spit a glob of spit and fresh blood on the dirty ground before turning back to her, glaring.

"You and Ivar," he simply hisses.

It is jealousy, and hurt that shapes his words. Sigrhild knows. She has witnessed firsthand what it meant for brothers to push back and forth for power. Sure, Björn was still hovering somewhere in the background, but it was clear he did not desire the throne.

"I do not engage in power play. I am simply doing the Gods' bidding."

She really does believe it. She believes the Gods wanted her by Ivar's side, for whatever reason, and they probably did. Ubbe is playing a loosing game.

"Do you really think he'll make you queen?" He draws closer, until they are inches apart. "Ivar is cruel and incapable of love, and the second you're done serving him he'll cast you aside. You are nothing to him."

"I had a dream," she breathes, an unflappable whisper hitting hot right on his chin, cutting through his core. "A great war is coming, and a great warrior must be made to paint the world red. My servitude is an honor."

A hand is crushing his chin forcefully then and Ubbe freezes. A primal urge in him sends his heart pumping, fear and excitement, and the bright brown eyes inspecting find it. Sigrhild is judging him, judging his worth.

She smiles and says, "One day I'll be everything you'll ever know."

Ubbe doesn't doubt it for a second. He will remember it the day she reshapes the world as he knows it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, okay, there's a more or less explicit sex scene ahead. You have been warned.

She's not the first by his side, but impossible not to notice her entrance from the first story of a house giving to the small clearance, sword dropping into a soldier. Ivar throws back his head and shouts, and she answers with a war cry of her own, thumping her shield. The next enemy hesitates only a second too long.

It'll be the last time he ever hesitates.

She's next to him then, when his eyes are entranced with the man that does not fight like his own. He fights with purpose, and reckless precision. The cross around his neck whirls with his swings, and one viking goes down, a second one, a third. Ivar licks his coppery lips.

"I want him," he growls.

Sigrhild's lips pull back, a grotesque grin underneath a mask of blood and gore. She's just as enthralled with the man. And when the Christian dares raising his sword on them, defying, Sigrhild only gives a delighted laugh.

"Then we shall have him."

Her shoulders pull forward, cutting through the fighting masses with every rattling step, more beast than man. Ivar never corrects her.

_Ivar, Ivar the boneless_ , it echoes in her head as Sigrhild raises her sword.

* * *

 

 

"At least tell me why."

"You know why."

Ubbe won't admit it out loud. He wants to hear her say it, some kind of sick confirmation of his greatest fears, yearning for pain that would make it easier to forget. Sometimes he thinks to see a glimpse of the Sigrhild he once loved, the one with the silk tongue and supple lashes, but he suspects that too had been nothing more than an illusion.

He had seen what he had wanted to see, in a hard woman that had a soft spot for him. Even now there seems to be a reminiscence of that, in her cool eyes that flicker back and forth between his hand on her elbow and his stricken face.

Sigrhild is torn in her affections, though there is no doubt where her ultimate loyalty lies.

"Don't pretend not to see, the fire in his eyes."

Ubbe lowers his voice, his grip tightening. "It is nothing but destruction."

"From the ashes we will rise."

"Ivar is nothing but a mad king. Mad kings do not rise, they plunge the world into chaos, good kings are the one's that pull their people out of misery."

Sigrhild smirks. "Then maybe you haven't fulfilled your destiny yet."

And just like that, the door opens ajar. Deep in his core, Ubbe can feel himself falling, and strangely he does not care. All he can see is Sigrhild's intense eyes, swallowing him whole to the deaf sounds of beating drums. A feast awaits at the tables of the great hall, for those who bathe in glory.

Ubbe is a thirsty man.

The spell breaks when a few of their countrymen walk past, pushing the doors of the conquered church open, the sounds of the festivities inside spilling onto the street. With an unsettling grin, Sigrhild steps away.

"Come on, let's join the feast."

It's almost as if she is asking him to sell his soul. Ubbe takes a step towards the open doors.

 

* * *

 

 

The church fills with Ivar's boasts, praise of the battle and the glory they have reaped in front of the Gods, and all Ubbe has eyes for is Sigrhild, whose intense face is still absent.

"I think we should stay, no?"

Sigrhild's eyes snap up. Ubbe knows Ivar has just addressed him, but he does not care. He feels his brothers jealousy burning through him and does not fucking care. Sigrhild sees him, truly, and even from across the hall it is as if she was right there, whispering in his ear, hushed promises of immortality in the great hall, adoration by his people.   
There is a faint, foolish hope for reunion there too. It comes at a price. Hvitserk is unaware he is looking up to a lost man for guidance.

"I agree," Ubbe declares.

The triumph in Ivar's proud shoulders and Hvitserk's unbelieving eyes trigger dread in the cavity of Ubbe's chest. He gulps it down with a drink of his ale and sinks further into his seat.

 

* * *

 

"You are a priest, no?"

Heahmund doesn't give Sigrhild the satisfaction of an answer, spits in her face instead. She barely flinches, stares him down with fire in her eyes. Sitting against a barrel in a dimly lit corner, Ivar tsked.

"You should not have done that," he warned. "Your countrymen will pay with their blood on these earths."

"You have no right. This is sacred land."

"Does that mean that a planted seed will take?" Ivar glanced over to Sigrhild with a grin, his eyes betraying a thousand words. "Now if that is not a sign from the Gods then I don't know what it is."

Even in the damp darkness, he can see her eyes cloud up with lust. With deliberate, measured movements she turned from Heahmund, crossed the space between them until she could settle in Ivar's lap. His hands found her thighs, slipped underneath the dress to caress, in awe of the supply skin there.

It is as if they had taken those damn mushrooms again, shared euphoria under the skin, heat pooling between their bodies. A heated tingle follows Sigrhild's hands as they travel up his chest plate.

Her hunger is intoxicating.

"I could take you here, if I wanted to," he breathes, wiping the christian's wet spit off her cheek, and then clenched his teeth with regret.

Sigrhild's bosom heaves with a breath, almost as if a single movement more could rupture the frail containment of their greedy appetite. It is when she leans closer to his ear that Ivar nearly breaks, can't hold back burying his nose in her perfumed locks and closing his eyes.

"It's not true what they say," she murmurs. "You are more man than any other will ever be."

"It didn't work with Margreth."

"Margreth is a whore. She did not deserve you, even your prick knows so much." Heahmund watched with uneasiness as the woman lowered her hand onto Ivar's bulging crotch and cocked her head with a grin. "See?"

A startled expression crossed Ivar's face, a sort of realization though moments later he is already upon her, in a fumble of hands on flushed skin and connecting mouths, her fingers feverishly tugging at the laces of his breeches. They are breaking, obsessive and burning energy bubbling up to the surface of their bodies. He pushes up her skirt as soon as he's freed, enters her unceremoniously, one hard stroke drawing audible groan from both of them.

This is better than anything he could have imagined. Red rising suns over the sea, the first taste of honeyed ale, his mother telling him she loves him. Suddenly Ivar understands why men fight wars over good pussy.

Their heavy breaths fill the cave, and Heahmund can close his eyes all he wants, tug at his rattling chains, he has to hear them sin in the most animalistic ways. At last, he gives up, lids fluttering open, and to his horror his own breeches have grown tight.

" _Absolve me, pater, quia peccavi_ ," it spills over his lips even as he remains enthralled with the scene.

They plant the seed of Ragnarök in front of the warrior christian's eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this ain't pretty. But I suppose you ain't here for pretty.

The fog lays heavy on the lands. After a day's sailing a river upwards in their shallow boats, a fraction of the great heathen army was ready to make camp in the surrounding woods before they would raid in the morning. Ubbe was currently marching among the middle of the faction, glaring at the back of Heahmund's head. He did not quite understand why Ivar had insisted on bringing the christian, but had not thought it important enough to protest. The man looked ready to dash away at any moment, despite the shackles around his wrists.

He glanced back, saw his brother was far behind, and stepped over a moss-grown log.

"This land is not so different from ours," Ubbe muttered absently. "Same shitty weather. My father used to say at least your soil was good for farming."

Heahmund only scoffed, earned a suspicious raised eyebrow from Ubbe. "Yes, I think your brother made that very clear," the christian spat, venom dripping from his lips.  
Ubbe's steps faltered a bit in confusion and though he did his best to cover up, the christian picked up on it at once, turning to confront him. They almost bumped into each other as a result and Ubbe huffed in his face. Heahmund was scrutinizing him, as if he was cutting him open, and discomfort spread in Ubbe's chest.

"You don't know."

"Know what."

What could a christian know that Ubbe would not? Heahmund glanced around, sparking Ubbe's curiosity.

"No, no, I understand now, when she said it is not true what they profess." Ubbe knows, he knows immediately the christian is talking about Sigrhild. "You think to be safe, you think all you have to do is have a couple of children and then wait it out. Be the clever one, right?"

Ubbe is lost. He understands the gravity of Heahmund's words, but not what they intend. "Just say what you have to say."

"It works, you know," Heahmund said, a sick satisfaction curling at his lips. As if this was revenge for his captivity. "Your brother, Ivar, can procreate. I witnessed it with my own eyes."

Ubbe swallows the disgust in his throat even as panic rises. They stare off for a second before Ubbe pushes the captive.

"Walk," he instructs harshly.

Heahmund does as told even as he smiles to himself, aware he has just planted the seed of dissent among the pagans. If there was one thing they could agree on, it was that the soil was rich in these strange lands.

 

* * *

 

 

"Please, Torvi, I need your help."

His hand is tender and warm on hers, eyes pleading, but she has not forgotten. He cast her aside after Margreth, cast her aside even though she had left Bjorn, cast her aside because he was a coward. She would spit in his face, if she could.

"You are asking the impossible," she says with a quiver in her voice. She too, is a coward, but it is with legitimate reason.

"I know there are ways. There must be, Sigrhild can not-"

She can not have this child. Not yet, not now, not ever. Terror spreads in Torvi's eyes, however when she nods, a breath of relief escapes Ubbe.

"I won't do it though," she declares stubbornly.

A new knot forms in the pit of his stomach even as Ubbe nods. "Of course not."

He does not want to put this on her shoulder, though in a way, he already has. Ubbe curses himself until the very end, until he slips into Ivar's and Sigrhild's chambers and pours the venom into their honeyed ale.

Torvi told him it needs to be administered over the course of three days, so he sneakily pours some more into the pitcher he knows will be brought to their table. The ale tastes more bitter than usual, knowing exactly what was in it. He washes it down with another two mugs.

The third and last, he holds in his mouth and spits into the sacrificial bowl as it is reached around. If the Hofgothi sees, he makes no comment. The bowl is passed around, and Ubbe is standing next to his brother with purpose. He knows who stands next to Ivar, always. Ivar drinks, a sick twist of delight in Ubbe's stomach, and then he holds the bowl out to his wife. For a second, Ubbe hesitates to lunge forward and knock the bowl out of Sigrhild's hands, he could find an excuse, any excuse to justify the act.

It is too late as Sigrhild takes a big gulp of the sacred blood, ignorant of how it has been tainted. Ubbe prays to the gods.

He loathes what he has become.

He loathes looking at Ivar and catching a glimpse of himself.

 

* * *

 

"I'm coming."

Ivar's grip on her hand does not resolve. He looks down on her with stern eyes, from on top of his carriage others can finally see the tall stature Sigrhild recognizes him to possess.

"You are not. You are bearing my child, do not forget," Ivar said with resolve, but then against all odds his face softens. "I know you are not feeling well. Stay. If it makes you feel any better, pretend it is for my own, selfish peace of mind."

There is acceptance between the both of them. He understands Sigrhild is unhappy with the arrangement, but comprehends the necessity of it.

Sigrhild gives a scoff at the jest. "Fine, I'll pretend then. Bring back enough glory for the three of us."

Ivar grins. "Do you doubt me now, wife?"

Broad and powerful before battle, he will raid these lands for all the praise the Gods have to offer. Ultimately, he feeds on hers too. Ivar leans down to claim her mouth, a hand grabbing her thick tress, and drinks the rich taste of her lips until he is drunk.

The moment he pulls away, the thrill of battle has already begun. Under their united cries of war, his carriage spear heads the way out of York.

 

* * *

 

The furs rustle, a strong hand finding a waist, pulling closer. A breath in the nape of her neck, goosebumps, a hot whisper in her ear.

"I want you. Let me have you."

Pliant in her sleep, Sigrhild offers her neck, rubs against the blazing body behind her even as a pain shoots up from her abdomen. She ignores it, half asleep and half aware Ivar has just come from a raid and is thirsty for more. The hand travels down, eager to find the warmth between her legs, Ivar is coating the side of her neck with heavy breaths and playful bites.

The uneasiness in Sigrhild's belly only grows and when she wakes with a startle the full-blown pain strikes her with a gasp. The doors close, the feast turns sour, black feathers rain from the skies with a ripped scream.

Ivar's electric blue stare is on her, confused.

"Woman would you calm down?" he pushes with irritation, putting a hand on her thigh. "Can a man not come home and claim what is his? Gods what is wrong with you, you must have woken up the whole city of York."

There is an inexplicable fright drawn onto the lines of Sigrhild's sharp features, a deep-seated agitation that Ivar does not recognise. With reluctance, he permits her to tear his hand away from her supple flesh, and guide her own hand down. She touches herself, and her whole face falls.

"What is it?" he demands to know.

She pulls her hand from in between her thighs and it comes back red. In bewilderment, both stare at it.

"But you are with child," Ivar mutters. Then something shifts in his face, uncontrollable a threatening. "You are with child, no?" he hisses accusingly.

Sigrhild glares. "I was," she hisses back.

"Did you lie to me?" He drags his body closer, until his sneer is up in her sharp face. "You bitch!"

The slap resonates in their chambers.

"I was hurting, something was wrong with our child and you weren't there. _You weren't. There_."

For the first time, there is a quiver in her voice. It confirms Ivar's worst fears. When he looks up the anger dissolves into a far more dreadful feeling, one that rips rifts into his core that can not be filled. For the first time, there is a quiver in her voice. It confirms Ivar's worst fears. When he looks up the anger dissolves into a far more dreadful feeling, one that rips rifts into his core that can not be filled.

His mouth draws into an ugly line as the first sob escapes him. He turns from Sigrhild not out of shame but simply because he can not bare look at her, not when all he can think about is their child, his child, that flows red between her thighs. Even for this, he does not have enough rage. Only heartbreak and tears.

He was supposed to be a father. For once in his life he had created something pure. For once in his life he had been joyed.

All gone. All turned to ashes in his mouth.

"This was not supposed to happen," Ivar lamented with a suppressed voice. "It's not right. You promised me. You _promised_ me!"

Sigrhild knows there is supposed to be pain, physical pain, though she is numb to it. As she watches Ivar dissolve into misery, there is nothing she can do to ease the suffering. He is right. This was not supposed to happen. When the Gods had sent her, they had never spoken of the torment she would endure, never spoken of how easily she would fall for the blazing glow of a mere human.

Ivar's soul shone with the force of a thousand berserk suns. Exploding, imploding, smoldering it's way into her heart.

In retrospect, she should have known. The greater the cause, the greater the sacrifice.

"We'll try again," she whispers in between Ivar's sobs.

All he did was shake his head in defeat. "I don't want to try again."

His soul is screaming, ripping itself apart. Sigrhild gazes into his eyes and catches a glimpse of a mighty storm brewing, helplessly delivered to itself, desperately seeking a shore on which it could throw its crashing waves.

She calls to him, extends a trembling hand.

Ivar falls to Sigrhild lap like a babe to a mother, desperate tears brimming at his eyes, cradling the hand that only moments before had struck him across the face. The one soiled with the blood of his first child.

She clings to him, still in shock. A thoughtful furrow crosses her brows, her mouth falling open with perplexity even as she hushed him. She pulls the pain through her hand, takes it from him in languid strokes, inhales and drowns in his stead.

She was not afraid of the water; the water was her home.


	4. Chapter 4

At the table of the great hall of York, uneasiness spreads. Sigrhild has been absent the past few meals and Ivar sits in silence, bitter and resentful. He will not admit why, but Ubbe knows.  Hvitserk suspects. The others are too drunk to notice.

Ubbe takes a sip of his drink, drinking up liquid courage. "The Englishmen won't take long to gather. We must prepare for battle."

Ivar throws his bone back into his plate. "Shut up," he snaps.

Hitserk shoots his more elderly brothers a look and agrees.  "Ubbe is right. We need a plan."

"A plan?" Ivar looks offended by the word.  It left a bitter taste in his mouth.  "That is all I am good for nowadays, _a plan_. Here I was thinking all of  Ragnar's sons had a brain to call their own. Tell me, was I wrong, hm?"

The balance tips over. For a man that is not currently partaking in full blown battle, Ivar lowers his head in a far too menacing way.  At once Ubbe recalls how it was, back when Ivar had been more volatile than powerful.

"Ivar," he warns, falls on deaf ears.

"Leave me."

"We are brothers."

"Are we?"

That cuts through to the bone and Ivar knows it.  Ubbe does his best to hide the crisp shiver running up his back, a flash of panic at the prospect that might have found out, against all odds.  Their glares clash, Ivar's rage seeping through the cracks of his bared teeth.

The doors fly open, torches flickering, and the svelte figure of an armor-clad figure of Sigrhild cuts through the hall, swift and terrible.  She steps on the tables, kicks at jugs and platters of food with a terrible yell, face contorted in a frightful ecstasy.  Ubbe rises from his seat when he takes notice of the great longsword she is swinging in warning for others to step back, but freezes in dread when he comprehends what she is going for.

The shortest path to Torvi.  Ivar leans closer.

"Did you genuinely think I would not find out?" he whispered. "The gods favor us. And now, sweet Torvi will die and you will watch."

It is vengeance. Vengeance for their own flesh and blood that had never seen the light of the world. 

Torvi turns to Ubbe, helpless, but in the face of a stony expression she perceives the fateful decision he has taken. Poor Torvi does not even have the time to draw her weapon before Sigrhild drives the tip of her sword right into her heart, sliding into flesh in one brisk motion. 

There is nothing Ubbe can do, if he does not want to suffer the same fate. So he clenches his jaw and watches Torvi's body hit the floor with glassy eyes, Ivar's cruel laugh ringing in his ear.

"Who dares challenge me?" Sigrhild shouts out, thumping her chest with her mighty weapon. "Come!  Come forward now and meet your makers; you fools, or be forever silent!"

The men of the great heathen army stand back. A borderline fascination and fear for this berserk beast spread among them, and Ubbe understands what this means. They would follow her into battle, just like they followed Ivar, no questions asked.

Sigrhild rips a jug of ale out of a man's hand, raises it high.

"To the children of honor and glory. Skoll!"

The hall erupts into an echo of her call and then a frenzy shakes the air. Ubbe falls into his seat, watching his own people dance over Torvi's corpse, Sigrhild's bloody sword raised high.  
Ivar knows no limits and Sigrhild only pushes them. In the name of glory, they were ready to kill their brothers and sisters.

Suffering in silence was not an option when you'd rather suffer in carnage.

 

* * *

 

Hvitserk is trembling. In resentment or shock, perhaps both. He paces the short piece of corridor he has pulled his brother into a few times before he squares up his shoulders and gets right under Ubbe's nose.

"What did you do, huh? What did you do to make them angry?"

Ubbe does not dare look at his brother, not with an clenching fist and turmoil deep in his chest. One more foolish move and he'll lose Hvitserk too.

"Sigrhild was with child. I did what I had to do."

He does not need to say more, Hvitserk is already pushing him away, a frustrated shout spilling from his throath. It hurts almost as much than watching Torvi fall.  His younger brother grabs his collar and Ubbe lets him.

"What is wrong with you, do you really hate Ivar that much?"

Ubbe's eyes snap up. "Don't pretend to cherish him either."

Hvitserk stumbles back, away from Ubbe, away from those spiteful eyes. He is sure then, that Ragnar's legacy has corrupted them, a curse that lays heavily over their brotherly bonds. Or perhaps it is Sigrhild, the enchantress, that takes advantage of their weakness.

"You disgust me. You've become like him."

Ubbe wants to protest, but the words turn rotten in his mouth. "I am nothing like him."

_Liar,_ it echoes in his head,  Sigrhild's voice of honey and cream. Liar.

Hvitserk only shakes his head, jaw quivering.  "Torvi is dead, because of you.  Ivar knows. They only spared you, for you to suffer. And you know what? They're right. You should."

Ubbe looks at his brother and suddenly feels nothing. After that last realisation Hvitserk had thrown at his face, he is not even sure if he is capable of suffering anymore.

 

* * *

 

Ivar is burning holes through the ceiling with his eyes.  He recalls the slide of a sword out of Torvi's chest and hates that she had had no time to suffer.  His lips twitches at the thought. He barely notices the languid fingers that travel up his chest, the intent attention Sigrhild gives his face.

Violence spreads there, seething.

"We should have killed him too."

Sigrhild shrugs. "It is not time."

"You still like him, do you not?"

Suddenly the animosity is directed towards her. It is amusing to be able to attract such fervor with little words and Sigrhild plays with it. 

"Would that make you jealous?"

"I am Ivar the boneless, I don't need to be jealous."

Sigrhild laughs, melts against him with a blazing hot body, climbs ontop like on a great mount.  Even though Ivar answers her delighted smile with a sneer, his hands come up to grab her thighs with selfishness at the tips of their fingers.

"Let's make a child," she says as she catches his eye. "Build a legacy."

"I told you I don't want to," Ivar hisses.

"I don't _care_ what you want," it comes sharp and treacherous from her  mouth. "It doesn't matter what  _you_  want. This is about fate drawn by the Gods. Do you not trust me?"

"Now that would be foolish, no? Trust you. All you have ever brought me is pain and suffering."

"The only truly foolish thing you do, is lie to me Ivar." She leans down, murmurs in his ear. "I have seen your true face, the one of steel and blood. The world will remember our names, but I, I will always remember your face. And you will remember mine."

Ivar's hands shoots out, grabs her around the neck with fervor. It is not enough to cut the flow of air off, just enough to awaken and excited tingle in her marking eyes. He devours it, drinks it up like a thirsty man in one of those famous deserts, eaten up by his worst lust.

"I will strangle you," he growls.

To his surprise, Sigrhild only smiles again.

"No, you won't. Give the Gods what they want. Give  _me_ what I want."

Ivar had never been able to say no to Sigrhild, or his own greedy desires. He fucks her with rage and fury, simultaneously wishing that she was afraid and revering in the fact that she was not.

At the end of the night, when she places a tender kiss at the corner of his lips, something strange flutters in the pit of his stomach. He lets himself fall asleep, pretending not to have noticed. 


	5. Chapter 5

Ubbe gives him a glance on the way out, pulls away with a note of disapointment drawn onto the tense line of his shoulders. No words needed. It is an accusation. Ivar sneers, yet it only takes him another anxious second to rip into the tent, eyes falling onto Sigrhild.

The jitter in his eyes freezes. Fall onto her chest, wait for the slight rise and fall that indicates she is still alive.

There it is. Almost inconceivable. Pale sickness draws over her face, hollows her cheeks, sucks the blood out of her dry lips. When he follows the line of her arm, he finds Sigrhild's hand resting on her ribs, where the blood already seeps through the bandages. Something clenches in his stomach, yet pulls him closer, every fall of his crutches resonating in the small tent. It's only a few steps, but they drag on.

Fluttering eyelids, and when the bird outside starts to sing, pale brown finds him. In the flickering of the candle, they carry a red tinge and have lost none of their fierceness.

Ivar drops onto the furs, all pride sucked out of him, and gathered Sigrhild in his arms, wiped the sticky strands of dirty blonde from her forehead. It was hot, like the stones of the sauna.

"Careful," it rasped from her throat. "I might get the foolish idea that you like me."

She was so pale, and he was so scared.

"I worship you."

He meant it. Ever since he had laid eyes on her, he had desired to claim her, steal her from Ubbe. But she had come willingly, and it had only made his lust to consume greater. Sigrhild shivered in his arms.

"I'm with child," she says humbly.

"I know. Only an idiot would not see." Ivar strokes along her jaw, rough fingers on burning skin. He wanted her. Even like this he wanted her. "I'll make you queen."

"I don't want that anymore, Ivar."

"Then what do you want. Tell me, I'll give it to you," he voices eager to please and then adds as if to prove a point, "I am Ivar the boneless, I can."

"Grant me peace, Ivar."

She is telling the truth, always has. He can recognize it in her eyes, how the serpent coils gently around his arm, between the web of his fingers and simply rests there with warmth. No constricting, content with the spot it found. He has been feeling it for a while, the content murmur, the shift in the air around Sigrhild and the calm it spreads in his chest. It is not as they used to be. It is not Ivar the boneless, the fearless, and not Sigrhild the bloody, the ruthless. They have been stripping their skins for a while now.

"It is not the viking way."

"I don't care. I am in love."

It was truly frightening, to hear the words. Scarier than affirming them as he had only moments earlier. After his mother's death, he had thought the world was incapable of loving him, that all he was to them was ugly and vile. So that was what he had decided to become, and more. Prove them wrong, prove them they underestimated him. Disabled, not unable.

But Sigrhild loved him, ugly and vile as he was. Ivar's heart raced, for once not in battle or fury. Confusion. Hurt.

His hand slides from her face, over her breast, down to her belly and rests there. An energy flows there, golden and blessed. It feels wrong.

"We should not have allowed this to happen," he whispers with challenge. "Maybe it is a cursed child. I was a cursed child."

"Nonsense. It is the will of the Gods." A shaky breath escapes Sigrhild before she confirms, "Just as you were the will of the Gods."

At that turmoil raises in Ivars stomach, uneasiness at words he had barely ever heard, words he would never have believed had they come from another. He swallowed, his challenge sucked out of him.

"What if it kills you."

There it was, that little smile Sigrhild only ever gave him in private, the one that belonged only to him, tainted with pliant acceptance. Her hand came up weakly, resting on his jaw reassuringly.

"Then you'll have a beautiful child, at least."

"I'd rather have you," Ivar blurts out, squeezing Sigrhild closer. "I'd rather have you," he repeated, voice quiet and trembling.

Sigrhild smiles again, hand soft on his cheek. She really does love him. Not his power, not his name, not his bravery or accomplishments, at least not anymore. Who would have thought. In her shining eyes he was truly a gift sent by the Gods, and it showed in her devotion, the way she dived into battle on an unspoken command.

All that mattered was to be by his side. It had been by his side she had been hurt. The thought is enough to make Ivar's blood boil again, his nose scrunch up.

"Grant me peace, when the time has come."

Ivar grits his teeth. "The Gods will give us a sign," he promises.

It is time for another vengeance to drive his madness. Maybe she was a gift of the Gods too, after all.

 

* * *

 

They raid. They pillage. A few months go by.

Sigrhild is not getting any better, and Ivar restless. Ubbe can see the madness in his brothers eyes, growing stronger every day, like a rivers current at the coming spring. The ice is melting, and underneath there is nothing but rage for the God in whose name Sigrhild had taken a sword through the lung.

Sometimes, Ubbe thinks she is getting better, but then she spends the next three days feverish in the tent. The more her belly grows, the weaker she gets. They have all seen pregnancies take their toll on women, but not like this, not when all blood drains from her face and her fingers grow frail. She cannot even hold a sword anymore.

The strangest thing is that her eyes still burn. She's a fighter, however Ubbe understands it is not for herself the day she watches Ivar spare, a hand on her belly. Head high, unmoving except for those jittering eyes, back and forth, until Ivar drives his axe into his sparring partner, deep and deadly.

Ivar's and Sigrhild's eyes melt together. A sacrifice, for her. The snake is hatching an egg and has just received a blessing.

The hand on Sigrhild's belly flinches, immediate uneasiness rising in Ubbe's throat. He wants to move, join her and inquire what is wrong, but finds himself unable to move a single inch. The wind blows, Sigrhild's lids slide shut. She cants her face up to the sky and listens to the crows gathering above, flying in circles.

Vultures that have spoted a carcass. Ubbe follows Ivar's eyes upwards and finds nothing but his own heart freezing.

Hvitserk breaks the moment as he pulls past his brother and joins Sigrhild, exchanging a few niceties under Ivar's ever watchful gaze. Ubbe wants to protest the needless death of a fellow viking, but when he opens his mouth Ivar's baby blues snap on him.

"Oh come on Ubbe, you know no one's going to say anything," he sneers, though his voice remains dangerously calm. That is what Ivar did, he froze the protest out of you. "Accidents happen, right?"

Ubbe does not find it in him to object. Ivar had become far, far too dangerous, and Ubbe could sense an unsettling perturbation in the nervous twitch of his brothers eyes as they turn to his wife. Hvitserk laughed. Sigrhild's hand flexed on her swolen belly. Ubbe took a step back.

That night, a baby starts to cry.

Ripped from a nightmare, Ubbe rushes right into another one as he rips the tent open. Ivar is holding a crying bundle, but something is off about the scene. It takes a second to register, to comprehend what the thick red over the baby, the matted furs, Ivar's hands means. It is painted over the walls, the lifeless corpse, the shadowy one eyed figure standing in the back. Ubbe barely registers it.

He watches in horror as Ivar wipes the blood off his daughter's face.

_What color are my eyes?_

Blue. So blue and hard to the world.

Ivar stares at his daughter as if he was going to devour her.

Ubbe can't breathe. A primal call has him lift his eyes, and then he is gazing into the eye of the mighty god himself, the fathers of fathers. Odin raises his hand over Ivar and his daughter, all-powerful, and thunder rings.

A new legacy is born.

Ubbe stumbles through the storm, empties his stomach at a nearby tree. When he's finished, he continues stumbling, through the wet, cold rain, the mud, the thunder and the crows caws. He does not stop and never turns back.

_One day I'll be everything you'll ever know._

Ivar would honor Sigrhild's sacrifice with a kingdom of blood.

The war of brothers has begun.

 

* * *

  
  


He holds her every night as if it was the last. It well could be, seeing as the fevers don't let up. So he clings to her, strokes her hair and whispers sweet nothings until they lull each other to sleep.

He startles awake one night and she's not there, in his arms. In a flight of panic, he sits up, and comes face to face with Sigrhild, only an inch apart. She never once flinches at his brisk movements. An unusual glow has befallen her face, almost golden in the flickering light, almost restored to its former glory. She looks healthy.

All candles are lit. A temperate hand comes to grab his, guide it, but all Ivar has eyes for is that penetrating stare.

He does not need to look down to know he is holding a knife. It's Sigrhild's. The time has come.

"No," Ivar rasps, pleading. "Don't make me."

She doesn't say anything, does not have to. The first and last command she will ever give him comes in the form of a gently guiding hand. He follows it, like a lamb to the slaughter, shivering and confused.

When the blade slowly sinks into her and a quiet breath escapes Sigrhild's lips, confusion turns into pleasure. It is hardwired into his very core, the pleasure of killing a man, the release of his human mask for something greater. Ivar hates himself, and drives the blade deeper. He is trembling with rage and agony, teeth grinding, hand clenched around the hilt of the short dagger as he starts to drag it painstakingly slow across her swollen belly.

She makes him do this. It's her fault.

Wetness streaks across his face, draws clear paths in his grimy skin. Tears of rage, release and despair. He is so grateful, despite the fact that this breaks him. It will be the last time Ivar the boneless ever cries.

No sound escapes her, not at any moment. There is no pain, only a sacrifice that must be made, and Ivar, who is worthy of it. It must be done. She takes it like a Viking.

Sigrhild hand comes up, draws a line underneath Ivar's eye with her bloody thumb. Recognition and worship. Fury and passion. Humanity and prophecy. She draws it all in that simple swipe, that burns into Ivar's skin as if it was made of sharp coal. He will wear the scar proudly.

"Odin will carry you through the gates of Valhalla himself," he assures her. "You will bathe in my blood, when I come."

For now he bathes in hers, warm and liquid. Sigrhild grants him that smile. Their love is destruction.

This is the will of the Gods.

The snake sheds her mortal skin.

The horns blow Ragnarök's arrival.

Blood born from blood.

Another comes alive.

Odin watches.

Abominations.


End file.
